CHORUS.—­Signing a plea, signing a plea! 
         Received ten and sixpence for signing a plea.

They may talk as they will of the pleasure that’s found. 
When venting in verse our despondence and grief;
But the pen of the poet was ne’er, I’ll be bound,
Half so pleasantly used as in signing a brief. 
In soft declarations, though rapture may lie,
If the maid to appear to your suit willing be,
But ah I could write till my inkstand was dry,
And die in the act—­yes—­of signing a plea.

CHORUS.—­Signing a plea, signing a plea! 
         Die in the act—­yes—­of signing a plea.

* * * * *

A CUT BY SIR PETER.

[Illustration]

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ANACREON, PETRONIUS, CERVANTES, HUDIBRAS, AND “PUNCH.”

A CASE IN POINT, FROM ANACREON.

[Greek:  EIS HEAUTON.]

[Greek:  Degousin ai gunaikes Anakreon geron ei Labon esoptron athrei Komas men ouket ousas Psilon de seu metopon.]

A FREE TRANSLATION BY “PUNCH”—­

THE CUTTEE.

  Oft by the women I am told
  “Tomkins, my boy, you’re growing o!d. 
  Look in the glass, and see how bare
  Your poll appears reflected there. 
  No ringlets play around your brow;
  ’Tis all Sir Peter Laurie-ish[1] now.”

    [1] This is a graceful as well as a literal rendering of the bard
        of Teos.  The word [Greek:  Psilon] signifying nudus,
        inanis, ’envis, fatuus; Anglice,—­Sir Peter Laurie-ish
        ED. OF “PUNCH.”]

A TRIBUTE BY PETRONIUS.

  Quod summum formae decus est, cecidere capilli,
    Vernantesque comas tristis abegit hyems
  Nunc umbra nudata sua jam tempora moerent,
    Areaque attritis nidet adusta pilis. 
  O fallax natura Deum! quae prima dedisti
    AEtati nostrae gaudia, prima rapis. 
  Infelix modo crinibus nitebas,
  Phoebo pulchrior, et sorore Phoebi: 
  At nunc laevior aere, vel rotundo
  Horti tubere, quod creavit unda,
  Ridentes fugis et times puellas. 
  Ut mortem citius venire credas,
  Scito jam capitis perisse partem.

A FREE TRANSLATION BY “PUNCH.”

  Tomkins, you’re dish’d! thy light luxuriant hair,
  Like “a distress,” hath left thy caput bare;
  Thy temples mourn th’ umbrageous locks, and yield
  A crop as stunted as a stubble field. 
  Rowland and Ross! your greasy gifts are vain,
  You give the hair you’re sure to cut again. 
  Unhappy Tomkins! late thy ringlets rare,
  E’en Wombwell’s self to rival might despair. 
  Now with thy smooth crown, nor the fledgling’s chops,
  Nor East-born Mechi’s magic razor strops,
  Can vie!  And laughing maids you fly in dread,
  Lest they should see the horrors of your head! 
  Laurie, like death, hath clouded o’er your morn. 
  Tomkins, you’re dish’d!  Your Jeune France locks are shorn.